The Wheel
by echoing noise
Summary: ...but everyone just has the same blank look, so what he's saying must not matter.  Dark. Selfharm. Disturbing. Read at your own discretion.


He thinks he's going mad.

He's losing his grip on reality. When he looks at things, they seem broken. He has broken vision, broken eyes, because everything is slightly crooked.

He can't handle anything anymore. He doesn't want to. Ten inches of parchment just isn't worth it anymore. Detention? Fine. Again.

It's not like the Dursleys care. Or Ron, even. Sometimes he tells his friend things and all he gets is a blank stare before they're back to playing chess.

But he always quits the chess games halfway through. They're just another thing he can't finish. Another thing he doesn't care about.

When he's alone, he breaks down. He tears his hair out, fistfulls of it. Is that wrong? Is that weird?

No one notices, so it must not be that bad. If he can hide it, then it must not be that bad. There are others worse off than him, after all. There are others worse off. He shouldn't complain.

Everyone's asleep and he's in the kitchen - past the pear and through the hallways, or is it the other way around? - and the knife is still in the knifeblock, but he has his hand gripped round the handle and - and his vision clears.

It sorts itself out and the world isn't tilted anymore, his vision isn't double, and nothing seems as confusing or as daunting as it did before. It's like the knife is his connection to the ground and he's finally stopped floating into space.

He slides the knife out and checks himself. He's still two feet on the ground. His vision is still normal. The colours are still the way they should be. He's not floating away.

Maybe the knife can fix him. Maybe if he just makes one cut, his problems can bleed out.

He does it slowly. He wants to suffer. He wants it to hurt.

So he saws at his arm, slowly. He isn't rushing into this. He isn't being rash. He saws, back and forth, into his arm. Slow, slow, slow. The knife doesn't expect anything from him. He can go as slow as he wants. The blade feels good. Better than anything he's ever done. It's cool and sharp and it saws into his arm, slow little blade, working through his limb. Slow, slow, slow.

Then he thinks he hears a house elf and spins around, shoves the knife into the knifeblock. But it's no one, of course it's no one.

But he will not take the risk of being caught. Not with this. Even though - it's the first thing that's made him sane in a long time. He feels almost happy.

He spends a long time, there, with his hand on the knife and wondering at the marvel of his feet on the ground.

And then he goes up to bed.

The next time he's tempted, he just looks at the thin line on his arm and it's a reminder. No one else notices it, but to him it's clear as day. A tiny line, delicate, careful, on his arm.

No one else knows.

It makes him feel better. After that, he has two feet on the ground.

He stops pulling his hair out. Instead he finds scissors and he cuts his hair, because the blades are running in front of his eyes and it's so close and that's almost as good as a slow cut.

Someone walks in and asks what he's doing. He just says nothing and twists his wrist uncomfortably and shoves the scissors into his bag. He hates mirrors, and he says so, but whoever it is just doesn't care because they don't say anything.

And he has a new cut, on his chin, but no one notices the fine fine scar. People don't notice, people don't care. He knows because he confesses, one day. He says, serious as he can, "I want to die." - and Ron snorts and ignores him, so he screams, he says, "I want to _die," _and Ron does nothing, doesn't even look up, just sort of laughs and tells him to stop being overdramatic.

Hermione tells him not to say those kind of things, but her expression's almost as blank as Ron's.

He says "I hate myself," and Ron laughs and says "Me, too," and he cries in the bathroom later but no one cares because that's such a drama-queen thing to do, not a boy thing and certainly not a Harry Potter thing.

But it seems he's always crying in the bathroom, so he must not be that Harry Potter.

People ask about the scratches on his wrists and he twists his hand 'round so they're out of sight and says he doesn't know where they're from. And people believe him, he thinks, or if they know they just don't care. The scars are ugly, there. He didn't use a knife for them, just his nails - digging into the other limb again and again and again just because he hates himself so much, each time leaving a little more blood in a little cresent cut and so they're ugly.

He's ugly.

And then his vision is broken again and it's all just the same damn wheel.

He sits on the heater in the bathroom, skipping class, and wishes God would take him, because he wants to die. He _wants _to die. He prays to God to take his life but God doesn't because he's still there, isn't he?

He hates that each morning, he can open his eyes. The world hurts too much and he wants to forget it, forget himself.

So he does. He learns how to fake laugh and fake smile and fake care, and it's so easy. He doesn't remember who he used to be. And he still misses his knife but then he lies to himself and says he doesn't need to slow cool sharp blade, because he's happy.

Right?

* * *

_please please please be gentle in your reviews._


End file.
